


In The Hands Of Angry Gods

by WesternScribe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age of the Sun King/ French Revolution Influenced, Angst, Blood, Conquistadorian/ Renaissance Influenced, Cults, Curse Breaking, Curses, Drama, F/M, Fire, Immortality, Modern Westeros, Rating will change, Reincarnation, Romance, Turn of the 20th Century Influenced, War, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WesternScribe/pseuds/WesternScribe
Summary: The siblings Lannister are cursed after the sweet queen invokes the wrath of the gods with her descent into madness and obsession with fire magic. Blood of her blood shall bear witness the consequences of her unholy bonds, always and unchanging. Or, wherein Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion are doomed to live forever.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	1. Just Out Of Grasp

**Author's Note:**

> The one where Jaime hasn't had a decent fight in some time and his bones itch to shed blood. On his voyage west, his flag ship's captain informs him of a stow away found.

One is All,

and by it All,

and for it All,

and if it does not contain All,

then All is Nothing.

* * *

**Jamie I**

A fortnight into the journey, they inform him of the stow away. Jamie stands at the far end of the quarterdeck, leaning against the railing, and watches the sea ripple blue and white behind his naval flagship, a great man-of-war, as he waits for the captain to bring the deviant forth. 

The crewmen, his soldiers, man the deck around him, doing tasks that sailors ofttimes do. There are shouts to mind this and that, to swab things down, to hoist this sail this way and that sail that way. It's all rather mundane to watch, and after the first three nights, Jaime began to question his decision to voyage. His eager spirit at the prospect of warring once again began to fade into a stale dreadfulness. And there were still months left for the sea. 

_More fool I for rash decisions made after words from a raven. At the least, there may be some degree of sport in terrorizing the poor wretch they bring me._

He chuckles to himself as a seagull perches upon the railing beside him and turns when he hears the voice of the vessel's captain. Burrin is a burly, yet stout man, middle in age, with thick hair on his arms that has seemed to flee his head and bulging, bug-like eyes. The baritone of his voice booms loudly as he climbs the steps to the quarterdeck. 

And in moments, he sees her. They emerge on the deck and the seagull next to him flies off. Burrin is speaking to her in harsh, snarling tones and her face has masked into a proper scowl. She regards all and sundry with contempt as two men at arms trail behind them, carrying halberds, much as they'd have been while standing sentry. 

His fingers grip the railing behind him, smooth under his calloused palm, and he stares in awe as they approach. The sun is high, this forenoon of spring, and a crisp breeze moves its fingers across the ship's path. She's wearing blue, a lovely color on her, though he would much rather her be in red or gold, and the wind causes the flimsy material of her tunic to slick taut against her frame. His breath becomes unsteady. His mouth is dry. 

Burrin stands before him at attention and the group stops. He's saying something, the man seems never in lack of words, but Jaime doesn't hear him. He doesn't hear the crew. He doesn't hear the waves. His entire world has shrunk to the maid before him; to her eyes, so blue, it hardly seems possible. 

"...and that's 'ow we caught 'er, m'lord." 

"What?" He asks it brusquely and looks down at the man in confusion. Burrin stares up expectantly, waiting for Jaime to make some comment or another in agreement to the long winded rambling he all but ignored. The girl looks at him, same as the two men at arms. That's when the captain, red faced now, proceeds to tell him of the capture of the maid. 

The tale amuses him. She took out two of his men and broke the first mate's collarbone. She managed to punch the captain in the nose before they subdued her. _That explains his state of righteous anger_. Jaime takes his words in and even nods at the appropriate times. He regards the maid again. Her cheeks, unmarked, burn red with indignation. Her lusterless hair, always lusterless, hangs flat against her ever broad shoulders. She meets his gaze and scowls further as his smile brightens. 

"Stow away, huh?" He says, and not unkindly, though she regards him with malice. 

"Aye, m'lord." Burrin confirms. "Galley boy found 'er blow deck, in the supply room."

Jaime walks before her, stopping where chests nearly touch, and looks up slightly. She's always the same height; taller than him but only so. He tries to make his eyes hard, tries to be intimidating, but he cannot seem to stifle his glee. _She's here_ , he thinks. _She's back_. And so, he is slightly giddy as he stares into her eyes, such marvelous eyes that he wants never to close again. 

"What's your name?" _Will she be Brienne this time?_

His question is met with the glare he's seen on countless occasions. Burrin bristles at this. He makes to strike her elbow, when Jaime stops him. He is quick now and he hardly remembers a life of right handed dances of steel. Jaime fixes him with a look, hard and menacing. 

"None of that." A degree of fear flickers through the captain's bulbous stare. 

Burrin sighs nervously. He turns again to the girl. "You will answer 'is lordship, girl." 

The threat sounds rather pathetic. Jaime looks at her again, glancing at her eyes, and it is only now that he sees her, truly sees her. She is young this time; younger than she was at first, younger than she was the last. Her eyes are bright and wide with innocence. Her skin wears a sad lack of freckles and her teeth aren't as prominent as they should be. Her hair is the same shade of hay, it always is, and her eyes are as blue as he remembers. 

"Girl!" Burrin begins. "I said-" 

"That will be enough, captain." Jaime says as the girl shuffles uncomfortably from his gaze. "Go trouble yourself with some other matter. Perhaps checking the masts or seeing to the upkeep of our cannons." 

"M'lord, I-," the man starts but huffs and acquiesces, "yes, M'lord. I shall see to the crew and the conditions of the vessel." 

"As you will, captain." He hears the men turn and leave them. 

The girl shifts her attention to the wood of the deck at their feet. He's so close to her, he can smell the sheen of sweat nervousness leaves upon her skin. 

"Why are you on my ship, girl?" 

She doesn't give an answer. She's so silent, he wonders if she is breathing at all. 

"Insubordination is not an affront I am accustomed, my lady." Her eyes meet his and she narrows her brow for just a moment. "Now, I pray you, speak only truth, least I will have no choice but send you to the brig." 

Her gaze becomes hard again. _Ah, she's stubborn_. Jaime feels his old heart sing with that glare. 

He sighs and shakes his head. "As you wish, my lady. I shall escort you personally to our gaoler. He is an old man, and silent. The two of you shall have plenty to converse upon." 

He ushers her along with his palm at the small of her back. It elicits a gasp, an intimate touch, and she walks with stiff muscles all the way to the great gilded hatches and the deck below. 

Aereno, the gaoler, stands at attention when they approach. What's left of his hair are thin white wisps upon a nearly bald head and he is more skeletal than Jaime remembers. Natheless, Jaime nods at the old man and receives a toothless smile as well as a, "M'lord." 

"The lady," he removes his only hand from her back and gestures to her with it, "is to be kept under watch until I decide what shall be done with her." 

A nod and an, "Aye m'lord." 

Jaime sighs, a smile creeping across his lips. "I will have words with her in private." 

Another nod of white wisps and the old man leaves. He turns to the girl as she stares at the wooden cell doors with trepidation _. Curious that she startles this easily. I don't remember Brienne being as such._

He clears his throat. "Now girl, I shall ask only but once more. Why are you on my ship?" 

"I-," her voice is high, it wavers. _She's frightened_. "I wished to seek passage aboard to the new continent my-m'lord." 

_M'lord?_

His hand rests behind his back now and he stands tall. "And your lord father was against such action, I presume." 

She looks at him with widened eyes. "My father is no lord, m'lord." 

Jaime frowns. "What's your name girl?"

"My name is Brienne, m'lord."

_She was a Brienne, though far more skittish than most._

"Brienne." It is a breath, and slips unbidden from his lips. 

She seems not to notice his folly, and continues speaking at his expectant look. "I wished to perhaps join your army. Yours is the only kingdom which allows women to enlist." A hardness comes into her eyes. "I am capable, m'lord. I can prove myself." 

Jaime smirks. "I don't doubt it. All the same, you do not strike me as a Westerlander. Why fight for a rival kingdom?" 

She holds her head high and her mouth grows mulish. "One army is as good as the other, m'lord." 

"An idealistic and rather puerile thought." She glares at him and it causes him to grin wide and true. "Where are you from, girl?" 

"I, I'd rather not." She looks to the floor and twiddles her fingers. 

"Come now. You say you wish to fight for my cause, yet I know nothing of you. You can be a spy, or an assassin, or sent to deliver some other dreadful fate. How can I trust you to fight beside me and my men, if we don't know who you are?" 

The question hangs in the silence until, finally, she speaks. "I am from an island near Shipbreaker Bay. It is rather small and I'm sure your lordship will be unfamiliar with any of its geographies." 

He smirks. "Try me." 

"It's called Tarth, though most foreigners know it as the Sapphire Isle." 

Jaime nods. "I may have heard of its existence in passing. Shipbreaker Bay, why that's in the Stormlands is it not, your liege lords are the Baratheons, with your size and strength, I'm sure the young king would make an exception for you." 

She blushes and it's blotchy and leaves him breathless. "I-ya, you flatter me, m'lord, but I have never met His Grace and I doubt he would listen to my wish." 

"He'd be a fool to ignore you." Her blush darkens and when her blue eyes meet his, they are wide and full of wonder. It was too forward a remark at present. This Brienne does not know of him. This Brienne is innocent and idealistic and reminds him painfully of the first. He could scare her away if he isn't careful. 

"Tell me of your father. Who is he, if not the ruler of Tarth?" 

Her eyebrows come together in confusion. "My father?" She asks. "I no naught of the man m'lord. My mother died on the birthing bed and I've been orphaned ever since." 

_She is an orphan? How is that so?_

"I was unaware that orphans are trained with sword in the Stormlands." 

"I apprenticed with a blacksmith m'lord. He taught me to make swords and use them." She looks to the ground again. She looks sad. "He was a good man." 

His arms itch to embrace her, to wrap her scent around himself and never let it go. He crosses them about his chest instead. "How did you gain entrance upon my vessel? There were armored men guarding the entire fleet day and night. And more over, how did you stay hidden for over a fortnight?" 

She smiles then. Her teeth are far from horsey and it leaves him ill at ease. "I told you I was capable, m'lord." 

_And so it begins_ , he thinks as he watches the mischief in this Brienne's eyes _, the first day of far too few._

Jaime agrees to let her fight with his Lannister army and orders her a cabin readied. He shows her to her chambers and tells her that sword practice begins at dawn, before heading to his own apartments. He finds the sword there, sheathed and hooked upon a wall beside his armor. He takes it from its scabbard and flourishes it for a moment or two. It's a marvelous sword still; the blade ripples with the light from his large glass ports, and crimson waves against onyx before his eyes. As beautiful as it was the first time he saw it _. A beautiful bribe, a beautiful mockery. But that was Father. Why did I pick this up now, after all this time?_

It is beautiful and the cool metal feels sensational in his grasp, but it isn't his sword. The weight is perfect but it is wrong. As he slices through the air, he knows he will never wield it, not truly. It is merely an antiquity when in his possession. It yearns for her. And so, he keeps it ready. It will dance as she plunges it through flesh and sing with the blood of their fallen foes. 

Jaime smiles at the sword and sheaths it before returning it to its place upon the wall. Still beautiful and sharp and capable; even with these last four hundred and eighty-two years gone. He wonders how he's fared in comparison. 

Jaime sees her practicing swords the next morn. This Brienne is sure-footed and swift. She leads the dance against Ser Wynne Eastwood: a well skilled, well respected knight, who is larger than herself and more than capable to defeat the best of men. His size is reminiscent of Sandor Clegane. Jaime watches the battle closely from his spot by the railing.

The man underestimates her, as men often do, and so, he is taken by sweet surprise as she parries a blow he was no doubt sure to win him victory. She pivots out of range slightly and slashes hard against his wrists. The man cries out, enraged. 

Jaime glances at Ser Harrys, standing beside him, as he nods his head slowly. "Gods be good." His tone is incredulous. "The stow away is giving Eastwood more than he bargained. Who would have thought?" 

Jaime smirks and crosses his arms about his chest. By now, a rather large group of the men have formed a circle around the match. Bets are placed and each clang of metal elicits a cheer from the crowd. 

Ser Wynne tries to overpower her, but she holds her ground and pushes hard against him. Brienne kicks the side of his right shin in that moment of reprieve, trying to cause a sweep. The knight stumbles a bit, yet stays standing. The unbalanced move is a grievous mistake on his part, he should have retreated, and she has him on the run now. Thrusting, slicing, she moves with an unpredictability that leaves Jaime quite satisfied. _She fights like a peasant. This Brienne is a scrapper._

She pivots to the right, catching her opponent off guard, and lounges a quick thrust against his chest, causing the man to fall backward, metal armor clanking loudly against the wood of the deck. Jaime hears hoots of laughter as well as murmurs of approval. 

Brienne takes off her gray halfhelm, eyes smiling in victory. She meets his graze, only for an instant, and her flushed face flushes even more. She looks so young. The wild strains of her hair cling to her unblemished neck and unscarred cheeks in dark, sweaty tendrils. He much prefers it when she shears it down. He likes it more when she deigns herself and gives into some doomed cause. She wears her hair short then. Every time. 

"There is no place for vanity in war, my lord." 

Those words come from her lips each time he asks about the limp, dingy, strains that are pushed back from view and hidden in helms. Jaime wonders if this Brienne will cut her hair before he fails her, before his doomed cause comes to a head. He wonders what she may say when he asks her anew. 

The ship's maester, a young man with hair as yellow as his own, comes to him with a missive. "From the capital, my lord." Jaime breaks the roaring crimson seal himself. It takes him a moment to grasp the meaning of its content. His sweet brother took far too much pleasure in using the codex he's crafted and uses it at every occasion, to Jaime's unyielding irritation. He sighs as Maester Wyrdell awaits his instruction.

As it were, Tyrion confirms his suspicions. The Oakhearts of Highgarden are behind the affront to their territories on the New Continent. He has prepared the kingdom for war, yet will withhold action until such time as Jaime sends his assessments of their lands and of the strength of the opposition to their colonies. The King of the Rock tells him to return as swift as circumstance will dictate and that they are officially at war. 

_The oak king is a fool_. They ended house Tyrell all those years ago, just as they will surely end this Oakheart nonsense. _Root and branch_ , his sister once said _. When will the plants of The Reach learn not to provoke the lion?_

He tightens the scroll as much as his single hand will allow before handing it to the maester. "Place this in the fire, Wyrdell." 

"At once, my lord." He turns on his heels and leaves, robes shifting in the breeze. 

Jaime turns his attention back to the practicing soldiers. His eyes scan the area for Brienne. She's deep in conversation with Ser Isley, a woman he knighted himself, and it is not long before Ser Robert comes to stand beside him. The man's short hair is more silver than brown at the roots and his robust mustache curls at the ends, much in accordance to the current fashion. 

"All good news I'm sure." The contrast between the man's soft words and hard eyes invokes a pleasant degree of mirth from Jaime. He falls into an easy smile. 

"Tell me Krynshaw, do you fancy felling trees?" 

"Ser?" His slight bemusement only furthers Jaime's good humor. He laughs outright. 

"We appear to be at war. The good king Oakheart has lost his senses. He's seemed to have forgotten the terms of our most recent treaty." 

Ser Robert's stern eyes infect the remainder of his face. "Has His Grace given further instruction regarding our plans with landfall? Are we to continue the discussed path?" 

Jaime regards his second in command thoughtfully. Robert Krynshaw is a man of two and fifty, tall with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and barrels for arms. Though his Stormlander mother named him for the King Robert Baratheon I of song, Jamie is grateful their similarities end at height and name. Krynshaw is a man of might but also of mind and Jaime knows immediately that he is aware of the contents of the missive.

"My brother has ordered we stay our course, Krynshaw. Upon our return, the Rock will advance on the Reach." 

Ser Robert's expression bitters. "Oakheart has indeed lost his senses." 

The sun moves high and Jaime retires to the council room of his apartments. Ser Robert accompanies him, along with Ser Lyonel Marbrand, Dennys Goldmount, Ser Stenford Crakehall, and Ser Nikholei Greenhill; other high lords of his command. They review tactician for every scenario anyone can think of and Jaime is only satisfied after each option is exhausted. They spend nearly a moon's turn in that room, over scrolls and figurines. 

When next he emerges upon the deck, on day twenty-three with this Brienne, he does so to encourage his men (and few women) with their fight and sword practice, and is rewarded in seeing Brienne best three foes at once. _She's gotten better since I’ve last saw her. She fights more like a knight, like herself_. And before he knows what he's doing, he walks to where she stands, near the railing of the starboard bow speaking to Isely, and he stops too close to be proper. He nearly grabs her elbow; causing her to look at him half in shock, half with curious awe. 

"M'lord." She says and looks down. Someone has taught her to regard him as her superior and it irritates him. He does grasp her elbow then and her lovely blue eyes meet his once more. 

"Well fought, my lady." He drops his hand, though his eyes flicker to Isley, and her face is an open book of shock. _I shall be as familiar with her as I please. The eyes of the soldiers matters not_. Jamie stares at Ser Aveline Isley for but an instant, daring her to comment, and just as quickly, the knight looks away. Brienne blushes and tries to suppress a non horse-like smile. 

"You are very kind, m'lord." 

Jaime smirks. "Hardly kind. Merely observant. Keep at it and we may win our battles." 

He leaves her there with Isley and the seabirds. Four days later, she challenges him to a duel and though he is rather delighted, he must refuse. She calls him craven, before other men practicing, and so, he can't refuse. 

"Alright," he smiles as he tells her. "If you're so keen to learn a lesson, my lady. I suppose it will do no harm. You will find there's no better teacher."

He forgoes armor, takes the blunted sword with only boiled leather and a shield attached to his stump. A group of onlookers has circled them, much as they do, and as he flourishes the blade, once, twice, he speaks. "Whenever you're ready." 

He advances before he finishes his words and Brienne catches his swing at the last moment. He presses and presses and presses more. Their steel sings upon the deck like cries of a forge and when he backs her against a railing, she nearly trips and he almost has her.

"Surely you can do better than this," he grunts. His face is next to hers as she tries to break his hold and his words are hers alone. "I've seen you slight Wynne Eastwood myself. What good are those big, lumbering arms of yours for? If not for this dance?" 

Enraged, she uses both arms and what appears to be much of her strength to push him back. His footing is balanced as he takes her blows. She pushes and pushes and pushes him still. Grunting like a sow with each thrust, with each swing, until she manages to strike his unprotected right shoulder. A sharp, jagged cry slips past his lips, though he remains afoot. The sound makes her lose focus, her confidence slips for an instant, she thinks better of harming the Lord Commander. Jaime makes to smush the thought immediately. He advances again. Moving his feet much like a burst, he swings high and lands a blow against her helm, denting it. 

"Consider the debt paid."

Quickly, she tosses the helm to the floor and glares at him. "You misunderstand m'lord. I've taken no slight against your person. The only harm may have been to your pride." 

_His pride_. Jaime chuckles and motions her toward him. "Come here, our dance is not done." 

She comes with a force he can barely contain. She blocks and parries, twists and thrusts, with more speed and agility than the last six Briennes. Her arms hold his advance and when he slices an upper cut, she whirls away faster than he would think possible. _She's a nimble wench_. 

Thrust, pivot, block, block, side swipe. She is more comfortable, more confident than most Briennes are, and she's little more than a child. She's very much so liken the first time. His chest tightens thinking of her...

Her advances are met with steadiness still, and though she has the speed and agility of youth; the desperation of her movements allow an opening to her right. He takes it with nary a thought, and the well placed lounge to her ribs causes her to howl in pain. She doubles over while he catches his breath. 

Her gasps ring of times spent between her legs and his body stirs, much to his dismay. Jaime clears his throat and breathes deeply, handing his sword to a squire. 

"We are finished for now, my lady. See to your errors and correct them. If you so wish to duel, I will not show such mercies a second time." 

This Brienne glares at him from her place upon the ground. The look, her flashing eyes, his singing blood and pounding heart, makes him want to tear the boiled leathers and mail away, rip her tunics and wool from her flesh, and fuck her until she grunts and sighs, much like she just did. 

He leaves her there, walks briskly to the armory and the awaiting squires before his cock has chance to stiffen further and he need explain his arousal. The walk to his apartments afterward is a dreadfully uncomfortable one and his mind, still racing with thoughts of her, flashes of her throughout time, leaves him much too hard. Jaime stumbles through a particularly clumsy left-handed release after baring his door.

As his breath slows, he finds himself thinking of the boredom he felt just before he heard wind of the stow away _. I wanted some excitement_. The girl, or more so the challenge in her eyes, held lovely promise. _This one may give some degree of sport indeed._ He smiles to himself as he cleans his seed from his palm.


	2. Just Out of Grasp

**Jaime II**

The Big Island comes into view on a clear, cloudless day. Jaime walks across the main deck of the ship to exercise his legs in the morning fog. Most of the crew is still below; sleeping through the shifts and tugs of wave against wood. He hasn't slept nearly enough since he first saw her, forty-six days prior. Their days are growing short, flying much too quickly, and each time he thinks of it, it pricks him near the raw. _I can do it this time_ , he thinks, _I can stop this wretched cycle and save us all._

A useless thought he's had too oft to count. _She'll die again, Lannister. That is the way of things. It happened the last; it will happen thus; it shall happen next. You can't save her. You can't even save yourself._

His pace increases to a jog and he passes one of his squires; Norce, a slight, slip of a boy with large hands and brows that meet in one bushy row.

"You have to push yourself, lad." He yells over his shoulder. "Sweat is weakness leaving your body. Pain is fear burning from your form. Keep pace!"

The boy huffs behind him but doesn't falter. "Aye, ser!"

Norce is one squire amongst five assigned to attend Jaime. The others are taller than the boy, meatier by two stone at the least, and take to the sword as a duck does to water; but for all his short comings, the lad remains undeterred. He's awkward with the shortsword and ungainly as a goose whilst flailing with a dirk. It would annoy the living shite out of him were it not so amusing. And in truth, Jaime could respect the boy in some regards. He has mettle. He always gets back up when knocked to the ground. Tenacity is as important as speed and skill he supposes.

Jaime stays two or three strides ahead, his legs are longer, and by the time his tunic is drenched from his own perspiration, he relents and allows Norce a rest. Jaime's breath comes heavy and he stretches his arms above him, to his right, to his left. When he looks to the sky, colours coming pink and orange through the grey mist, he notices seagulls.

"Land ho!" Bellows a baritone from a crow's nest high above them.

_Land, thank those accursed Gods. A reprieve from running about this wooden contraption. I'm bloody well sick of feeling like cattle._

Within the space of a half hour, the main deck becomes alive with knights and sailors, marines and lieutenants, squires and high lords, all eager to see the mountain chain upon the approaching horizon. Jaime makes his way to the poop deck. He finds the captain at the helm, along with his first mate.

"Grateful morn, m'lord." Burrin says with his hands on the large wooden wheel.

Jaime regards the men pleasantly. He is in a pleasant mood after all. "And to you captain." He nods to the mate. "How long before we dock?"

As a rough wave rocks the port beam of the ship, Burrin clenches his teeth and steers against it. "We should cut break water in no more than an hour, m'lord."

Jaime smiles. "Splendid. I knew you would make out well, contrarily to what's been said of you." His eyes scan the various parts of the uppermost deck: the forecastle, the quarterdeck, and in that moment he spots her. In the crimson tunic and black breeches of his army, she is leaning against the railing, on the starboard side of the forecastle. He hears Burrin murmur something in response to his words, but his feet move to her before the captain's speech has chance to take meaning.

Brienne is with Ser Wynne Eastwood. He's seen them together rather frequently and it does not please him in the slightest. Jaime is not great with competition and he can even admit that his reactions are... _less than befitting_. He is too rash when he sees her with other men.

Many times, she is married. And in his rage, he kills her paramours. He kills them all. Stout, thin, tall, short, muscular, lean. It makes no difference. And when she mourns the dead, she always mourns the dead, she turns her blade upon him and brands him monster. Fights ensue, his blood sings as sweet and as bitter as wine, and it takes half their time to obtain all of her love _. It's all rather ridiculous really_.

Eastwood turns at his approach and stands at attention.

"My lord." The young man says in greeting.

"A fine morning for shore leave, wouldn't you agree?"

He nods and his red hair falls about his shoulders like a copper curtain. "Fine indeed, my lord."

Brienne regards him then; face still alight with the excitement from moments before, from seeing the mountains. "Grateful morn, m'lord."

Her eyes are shining. "Beautiful morning I'd say. Though I'm afraid we may have to forgo our dance this day."

After she challenged him, some nineteen days ago, he began to spar with her every forenoon. The spectacle of their fights lost its novelty after a sennight; it grew rather tedious with the Lord Commander undefeated, and soon enough their dances became blissfully unobserved. That is, until Eastwood began to wait near the railings and give his opinion on her stance, or her thrusts, or her parries. Jaime, in his age, had developed a degree of patience, and thus withheld actions that would be instinct were he a young man. And so, he did not immediately seek to rid himself of the mounting annoyance that was the young knight. He was even amiable, Briennes tend to have that affect on him, and Jaime held his tongue as he taught the girl the better way of the sword. She was quick to learn and now fights nearly as well as the first one had in the end. Her skills are sharper than ever and she doesn't need his sword to practice any longer, yet the disappointment in her face makes him rather blithesome. _She enjoys you, Lannister, and you're refusing her. Do you even know when last you could refuse her?_

Her smile falters an inch, but she nods. "Oh, of course, m'lord. There's, there are matters of more import."

He raises an eyebrow. "I didn't say that, child. Swordplay is as important to a warrior as the Citadel is to a maester."

She nods again as he regards Eastwood, staring until the redhead seems to catch his meaning. The challenge in the young knight's eyes is unmistakable. "Brienne," he says not looking away from Jaime, "I'll go help with the sails."

"I'll join you." She offers but Eastwood shakes his head. "No need. Stay here. There are hands enough with mine own and besides, I'm sure my Lord of Lannister can regale you with a tale or two from his youth, since you're interested in war stories. He is nice company and knowledgeable, as many older men are. He led the force against the Red Bat of Harrenhall."

 _Older men_. Jaime narrows his eyes at the boy. He is dangerously close to insolence.

Oblivious, Brienne gasps. "He did?"

Eastwood smiles. "Indeed he did. I squired for him and he knighted me there."

_Is that the game you wish to play, boy? Alright._

Jaime nods and flashes Brienne a charming grin. "Only because young Eastwood was very attentive a squire and brave. You know," he turns back to the boy, "Ser Wynne slew the bat himself."

The girl gasps in shock. "A mere squire? No."

"Yes." He goes on, "I'd the perfect view of his fall atop my destrier."

Wynne Eastwood smiles again and it is then that Jaime decides he has humored the impudent boy enough this day. He fixes the youth with a glare and the boy has the audacity to smirk before bowing slightly to Brienne. He nods to Jaime and says, "My lord," before leaving them.

_Have you changed so much as to not expeditiously punish wretches like him? What would Father say? What would that two handed man have done?_

Brienne watches her friend walk to the mizzenmast before returning her gaze to the island chain drawing ever closer.

Jaime couldn't stop from clenching his fist, his single fist. _Father is long dead and you've but the one hand, you fool_. Nevertheless, he decides upon exacting some degree of vengeance at the young Eastwood's expense. _Mayhaps I'll put him in the vanguard once the fighting begins. A longsword through the throat will surely wipe the smirk from the boy's face._

"Is this the first time you've seen Arya's Point?" He steps a little closer to her and their elbows brush as they lean against the wooden rail.

"I've never been this far west before, m'lord. The air is _different_ , it's," she rubs her fingers together, searching for the word, "...heavier, and _sticky_."

Jaime chuckles. "That is called humidity, Brienne."

"I know what humidity is, m'lord." She huffs and glares at the water. "It's not this hot on Tarth, or even on the mainland."

The morning fog clears as the ship moves closer to the largest island, the Big Island, and the sun shines brightly. _From the looks of it, there won't be a cloud in the sky soon_. A wave laps against the boat beneath them, spraying water about the deck. It misses him entirely but douses her with an unpleasant amount of the salty brine. She flings her arms and forth and wipes her face in annoyance.

"Ugh. Even the water's warm."

Jaime laughs harder. "Come with me ashore, my lady. I will introduce you to the better aspects of this foreign land."

She crosses her arms about her chest and waits for his chortling to die. "Do you speak truly, m'lord? Do you wish for me to accompany you?"

"Yes." He blurts without thinking. _Easy, you forget yourself_. "...but only if that would please you."

She eyes him dubiously. "Alright."

"Then it's settled." He touches her arm, and her expression softens as she looks at his hand upon her. "I'll find you after my affairs are settled with the chieftain. There is a large market along the eastern side of the township, the Westerosi Market. It has an eclectic selection of steel stalls. I'd suggest you take a gander there while you wait. Learn a thing or two from the smiths."

"Okay." Her blue eyes shimmer like sunlight on the waves; and in that moment, he wants to kiss her, though he doesn't. _Not yet._

Instead, he removes his hand from her person, smiles crookedly, and turns to leave, but stops midstep. "One thing more, my lady."

"Yes?"

"The market," he starts, waving his hand slightly, "it can be rather dangerous."

She cocks a brow. "I'm more then able-"

"And you're right." He nods. "All the same, do be vigilant. These islands are a pirate hub. If you see something... _unsavory_ happening, let it alone."

He's offended her, he can see in an instant. Her lips purse and her mouth twists in perverse defiance. "Is that an order?"

Jaime tilts his head. "If so, you'd be obligated to follow it." He smirks and she narrows her eyes. "Must I say the words?"

She exhales through her nose, rather like an auroch. "If it please, m'lord."

"What would please me most," he calms himself and takes a step toward her, into her personal space, "is if you took care. I'm sure you've this idealism that compels you to defend the weak." All Briennes do. Sometimes it gets her killed prematurely. "And that is well and good, a staple amongst true knights. That is what you want, is it not?" She blinks in surprise. "To be a knight?"

"How did you? I've told no one-"

"Call it a guess. And I am quite certain there is no soul more worthy of the title." She blushes. He can't stop himself as he grasps her hand and kisses the back of it. "Mind the pirates."

"O-okay." She breathes.

"I'll keep you at your word." He walks away then; before he does something truly foolish.

He and his high lords take one of many small boats to the docks, and once the gangplank of his tender is lowered, he is first upon the wooden walkway of the pier. _Land_ , he thinks. _Gods be good, I thought I'd never see it again._

Where the wet wood of the quayside meets the muddied slush of port land, an escort awaits his party. There are twelve men in total. Four men at arms hold halberds and stand at attention. The sun glistens on their mahogany skin and the geometric patterns tattooed upon their bare chests are rather interesting to behold. They wear breeches made of woven grass, in the traditional garb of the isles, as well as flat, grass woven shoes that curve up at the tips. Three men sit behind them, mounted atop Westerosi stallions. _Officials most like_. They wear the same grass breeches but their peascod bellied jerkins are fashioned of linen and leather. The horsemen make way as the rider at the party's flank dismounts and walks toward Jaime's approach. The man is perhaps his age, when he stopped aging, and shorter than himself; has golden, tawny skin and a long Stark face framed by dark, nearly black curls. His grey eyes regard him kindly as he holds his hands out, in a gesture of welcome.

"My Lord of Lannister," he says with a wolfish grin, "I am pleased to welcome you and your lords bannermen to Nooma Motu. My lords, I am called Alekiee Starkborn and am chieftain of the isles."

Jaime smiles politely and falls into his courtesies. "Charmed."

"I trust the voyage thus far has not been too arduous a journey. I've once traveled to the great kingdom of the Westerlands myself, and am ashamed to say that, even as tamaloa o Nooma, sixty days at sea was nearly too much for me to bear."

From behind, he hears Lyonel Marbrand mutter something to Robert Krynshaw in a tone that reminds him of the Addam from his youth. It makes him smile.

"It has been a rather long trip indeed, Chief Starkborn. And we've another sixty days before reaching our colonies." Jaime shrugs. "I am quite certain that by its end, I shall have sea legs to rival any one of your pirates."

The chieftain chuckles. "Indeed, my lord. Though I might hope you'd rest your legs of the sea with our finest litter to carry you to our palace." The not quite Stark man snaps his fingers and four strong ebon skinned men rush up from behind him; carrying the gilded handles of a palanquin, red silk curtains and golden lions threaded on the screens.

"I shall ride in no litters today, good chief. If you have it, I would take one of your fine stallions."

"If it please, my lord." The man clicks his tongue and one of the officials dismounts. The spotted mare is then led to Jaime to inspect.

"The blue Appaloosa is bred here, on the Big Island of Nooma." Jaime touches the creature's neck, warm and taut under the fur. "She is made for speed, my lord, and handles command as though she and her rider were of one mind." Jaime's hand moves to her shoulder. "Do you find her suitable?"

"Your spotted mare shall suffice until such time as I procure a blood bay." He mounts the horse with ease and feels mayhaps a little too excited at once again having a stallion's power beneath him. _Never thought I'd have chance to miss horses._

"Excellent." The chieftain says as he climbs astride his steed. "Please, my lord," he turns to Jaime. "Follow me."

He moves at a gentle trot, though their cortège falls behind, and turns to speak to Jaime once they are near abreast. The chieftain talks nearly the entire ride, clearly a man who fancies the sound of his own voice, and Jaime hardly registers any, if none of his speech. Jaime is more interested in the sights and sounds of the island he last visited quite some time ago. The large coconut palms are the same, still standing proud and silent, as he passes them. Their humongous, flat leaves rustle in the warm breeze. In the space of a half league, they're away from the fishermen and boats of the shipyards, and ride through the wide red dirt roads of the countryside that lead to the capital city. The volcanic mountains in the distance rest like sleeping black and green giants along the horizon. They pass fields of sugarcane and rows upon rows of the leafy spikes that are the pineapple plants. After an hour, the fields give way to the settlements of man.

The city has no walls but a gate of six, two-hundred and fifty foot tall coconut palms on either side of the wide red road, the Mother Road, as the chief points out. The trees are impressive indeed, as they had been last he saw them, when the island was untamed and wild; and there were five chieftains instead of this one. Then, the islands were newly a northern colony and the ebon, blue-black coloured natives wore grass skirts and attacked invaders with arrows and spears and curved, flying weapons. It was an exciting time. Now, things are different. Now, he is curiously disheartened to say, the islands have been conquered and the chieftain he's been ignoring is as dull as every other Stark he's come across.

"My lord," he says once they pass the palms, "Tina o Le Papa welcomes you."

"I am pleased to hear it." _Gods this child is a bore. I wonder if they still ride those great wooden boards on the waves during high tide. That was rather enjoyable._

The city is a quarter the size of Lannisport. They pass large wooden manses and black stone halls, splendid marble estates and woven grass houses. When last he was here, there were naught but grass huts and one long wooden hall. The people are changed too. The grass skirts are gone in favor of breeches and tunics for the poor; doublet, jerkins, paned trunk hose with codpiece, and high ruffled collars for the wealthy. The women are no longer bare breasted but wear either long gowns with sleeveless tunics and wimples in their low status, or chemise and farthingale, kirtle and gown in higher regards. The rich ladies even adorn the hooded hair coverings that has become popular in the crownlands of King's Landing and dawn necklaces and brooches. The faces of the crowds he passes are no longer the rich, deep colour of coal, but instead are a thousand shades of brown. _These islands will lose their identity in another two centuries. I wonder which Stark faced child shall greet me then._

He sees a bare foot, peasant girl watching the procession of his horse and party, and a woman in long linen skirts grabs her roughly by the arm and pulls her way, down the next street they pass. The chieftain notices his stare and nods. "That is the Path of Plenty." He says gesturing to the smaller street to their right. Cook fires and stalls of foods stretch as far as his eye can see. "You'll find the tastiest suckling pig you've ever eaten there." Jaime smells roasted meats, and curious spices, and sees rather bizarre carcasses hanging from hooks. _Still a bit wild I see._

The Mother Road leads to a grand hill that overlooks the city and gives an unobstructed view of the blue horizon to the west. Jaime notes battlements, their black stone tips poking out from the line of treetops of the forest east of the city. The further they travel uphill, the finer the manses become, until finally palaces give way and at the very top of the hill, made entirely of white marble it seems, lies the chieftain's palace. There are no gates or moats to separate the chief from his subjects; only a half league of forest and the road. At the foot of the palace, the red road curves and circles, signaling its end. In the center of the circle is a marble fountain with a statue of a grey stone direwolf, howling to the sky.

The palace is a massive five story structure with great Ionic columns and high arching windows. Each level has the roofed, open-sided verandas that are typical of the isles. He can see the rush of servants here and there; carrying loads of white fabrics or boxes of Gods only knew what, through the open doors, disappearing within. There are gardens in front, birds of prey and other curiously coloured flowers landscaped around swooping paths of volcanic black rock. Along the expanse of the red road, smaller, twenty foot palms live in rows and sway in the cooling breeze.

Starkborn rears to a stop and stable boys rush to assist him as he dismounts. They do the same for Jaime. "We are not as grand as Westeros here, my Lord of Lannister, but on all the Isles of Nooma, this is the greatest structure. Please, make yourself as you would in your home. I hope you and your fine lords will join myself and my family for the evening meal in our Great Hall of Many Waters."

"I thank you for your invitation, chieftain. I shall be honored to join you."

"Excellent." Starkborn clicks his tongue and two rather pretty girls come before them. One is tall, with large eyes and flowers braided into her thick black hair. The other is short, but has wide hips and large breasts. "Take Lord Jaime to the finest of our guests’ apartments. He is to be shown every hospitality."

The girls, eyes upon the ground, speak as one. "Yes, My Chief."

"My lord, please excuse me. It is near time I prepare myself for the day's court."

"Of course. As you were, chieftain."

The Starkborn leaves him there and the girls stand silent, awaiting his command. Jamie turns back, looks to the road. His party has yet to arrive. Some men are on foot and will most likely not reach the palace until an hour or two.

Jaime addresses the taller girl. "Lead the way."

Rather quickly, she flickers her eyes to his and bows her head. "If it please my lord."

He's ushered through a great curved opening that acts as the palace's main entrance. The doors open to an open faced, columned hall that leads to a large square courtyard that houses more fountains and more flowers. From there, they take him right; through arching walkways with statues of old tree Gods and paintings of what must be the Gods of the isles along the walls. They walk and walk, passing rooms for tea and rooms for merriment, slipping through more courtyards and what must be the practice grounds for the chieftain's royal guard. He sees their version of knights and lords and ladies about. He sees stable boys, and nursemaids, and squires afoot. The chieftain's Kingsguard are more than seven. He’s counted twenty thus far. Their uniforms are black; and they wear not the helms and plate armor of the east, but oiled ringmail over ornately designed boiled leather _. I've seen this before...somewhere_. They carry longswords and their bare arms are marked with patterns of geometric tattoos. One man, a young man, nods in greeting as they pass.

On and on the girls take them, down corridor after corridor; he even sees a Godswood. "Are we touring the entire bloody palace?" He calls from behind them. The short one turns and shakes her head. "No, my lord. Your rooms are just up these steps."

Three flights up a spiral staircase and he's before large oak doors that open to high ceilings and marble floors. His rooms are four spacious apartments, each with its own balcony and view of the sea, the forest, the mountains, the city below. He can even make out the Pirate Bay, with its ships from all over the known world in its port.

The bed is large, feathered, and canopied. There are dressing screens and looking glasses that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. One room holds a library. Another, a large bath in the Braavosi style. _Well, I suppose this will do. It's far better than the quarters I occupy on that ship, that's for certain._

"Is there anything else you wish of us, my lord?" The taller girl stares at him openly now.

Jaime scratches his cheek and raises an eyebrow. "Have you overlooked something?"

She smiles. "Salmanti was trained at one of the better whore houses than I." The short girl, Salmanti, unwraps her skirt and unlaces her tunic in three quick movements. She's naked before he can speak. "But I have never received anything less than praise." The tall girl begins to undo her clothing as well.

"There, there is no need for this." The short one's breasts are larger than he thought they'd be and her dusky nipples perk upward, begging to be pressed. Her teats look as soft as flower petals and he knows they'd be just as sweet.

The girls eye him with bemusement. The tall one speaks. "Do you not wish to taste the pleasures of Nooma, my lord?"

It's always rather difficult to deny naked women. _You've Brienne here on this island, you impatient fool. You've waited two and forty years for this, you can wait another two moons if need be_. He swallows and shakes his head.

"I shall partake of no pleasures at the moment. I've had a long journey. Draw my bath and go about your day."

They dress and fetch him hot water and leave him to his peace. His cock is hard as he bathes in the large tub. _Those blasted girls_ , he thinks. _Do they do that to everyman they bring to this room?_ He thinks of Brienne at thirty, he likes her at thirty, and strokes himself until he's satisfied. When he finishes and is in small clothes, two of his squires are present in his main room. He has the boys dress him in black breeches and high boots. He decides to wear a light, summer tunic of crimson and his golden lion ring upon the finger closest his pinkie.

He sends Norce to find a blood bay and once the boy has the mare prepared, he rides off, back down the red road, to the west and the Westerosi market. Jaime finds her where he knows she will be; past the Pentoshi spice traders; after the Lynese fabric merchants and the cheesemongers from the Reach. He leads his mount through the stalls and stalls of Braavosi silk sellers; as well as the odor maskers of Volantis. She's closer to the traders from the old crownlands, near the stands of the new steel masters that brave the ruins of ancient Valaryia. He turns a corner, in this maze of a market, and sees her haggle with a purple bearded Pentoshi over the price of an arakh. He can't hear her, she's a few rows down, but when she picks up the pommel of the scythe like sword and the sunlight glints off the tip of the curved blade, his stump burns just a little. The man's yelling at her and she responds in kind before pointing her finger in his face and throwing the blade down upon his stall of weapons. She stalks off and Jaime decides to stay a few yards behind her; curious to see what she will do. This Brienne has a fire in her that few Briennes possess. The first one wouldn't have yelled at that man. _Gods, I miss her as I miss my right hand. No use thinking of her now._

This Brienne walks and walks and walks until they leave the vast market behind and end up by the drinking houses of the Pirate's Bay. _I told her to avoid this place. The insubordinate wench_. There is commotion from the open doors of the nearest tavern. He dismounts when he hears the shrill scream of a woman. Brienne rushes forth as a man emerges from the building. He's dragging a woman by her hair, by her shoulders, and Jaime can tell from his green beard and triangular, feathered hat, that the man is a pirate. He's tall, mayhaps as tall as himself. Brienne draws her sword and yells at him.

"Unhand her!"

Four more men exit the tavern at that moment and the pirate turns to look at Brienne.

"What did you say?"

She takes a step. "I said to let her go! _Now!_ "

The man straightens and pulls the girl's hair until she's standing upright. "Who the fuck are you supposed to be? You're a… wench, though you don't look it."

"Let her go-"

The pirate laughs. Passersby stop to watch the confrontation and Jaime moves from his horse. He walks toward Brienne.

"I'm in a fine humor _girl_ ," the word is a mockery, "be on your way or I'll see you whored on my ship as well."

Brienne lounges toward him. He's quick and throws the girl into her assault. The pirate pulls two daggers from his belt and attacks her while she's down. Jaime makes it just in time. His blade stops one of the daggers from slicing through her arm.

"What the-," she begins, "where'd you come from?"

The pirate's men join the battle. _Five against two_ , Jaime sees, _not very fair for them_. He pushes the pirate's blade and forces him off. She regains her footing and her stance.

"I was to meet you at the market." He glances at her and grins. "How did I know you'd not be there, as well as run into trouble?"

The pirate addresses Jaime in a voice fit for a war general. "I've no quarrel with you, cripple. Control your beast of a wench and give me the girl."

 _Cripple_. After all this time, the word still boils a bit of his blood.

"I believe the lady warned you to let the girl go."

The man smirks. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

Jaime snorts. "I suppose I can take a guess. Someone who doesn't matter." The man frowns. "Someone who's about to die."

One of his men moves upon Brienne with a downward stroke of his longsword. She parries and meets his next thrust. Jaime engages in his own dance with a boy of a pirate, _he must be of an age with Norce_ , and dispatches the child quickly, with a swift thrust through the heart. The boy slumps to the ground in death and while Jaime slices the air, cleaning his blade of the blood, another man, an older man, meets him with white hot rage.

"You killed my son!" He screams as he slashes stroke upon stroke of the bastard sword his wields. They're all downward swings and in moments, the man gives Jaime the opening he needs. He plunges his sword through the man's heart, same as he did the boy.

Jaime sighs as he looks upon the pair. "You should have been a better father."

He hears Brienne grunt and he goes to her. The pirate and his daggers are a challenge to her _, I'll teach her a better technique later_ , and as he pushes her back, one of the remaining two men make to stab her from behind. Jaime catches him and punches the man in the nose, causing him to full upon his arse.

"You bastard." He says as he scrambles to his feet. "You'll pay for that…And for killing Red and the boy."

"We'll see who pays what."

Jaime parries and pivots, slices and thrusts until he's beside Brienne, on her left side. It feels like home. His opponent lounges too quickly, too far, and when Jaime leaps backwards, out of range, the man falls forward a little, right into the path of his back handed swing. The Valaryian steel glides through the man's head like a hot blade through butter and the top, left side of his face slides off its purchase in a diagonal ruin. He falls like a sack and chunks of pink-grey brain spill upon the dirt mixing with the pools of his blood.

His gaze flickers to Brienne and he sees her cut through the pirate's defensive stance. Her blade takes his shoulder and the man screams in pain.

"You bitch!" He yells. He takes a breath and looks at the carnage before him. Jaime knows what fear smells like, even if he cannot see the man's eyes. It comes as no great surprise when the pirate and his man decide to flee. Jaime grabs Brienne's elbow when she means to give chase.

"No need." He shakes his head at the incredulity on her face. "Let the cowards run."

"They hurt that girl. We can't just let them-"

"But we will." She purses her lips and he sighs. "You can't save every unfortunate soul you cross. No knight can."

She wrenches from his grasp. "No." She glares at him. "For I am not a knight."

She stalks off again, going toward the forests and the path to the mountains, and Jaime has no idea what he’s said to offend her. He catches up and tries to start some conversation but she's angry and as pig stubborn as she always is, so he follows her until they cross a thicket of huge flat leaves; reaching the end of the ceaseless ceiling of coconut palms. The wind rustles her thin hair as she stands before a jagged cliff and the sea, a hundred feet below. He wonders if she is calm now, so he tries again.

"Brienne," he says. "Be reasona-"

She'd crossed her arms about her chest, refusing to look at him. "I could have handled that myself."

"Yea," he says sardonically. "I'm positive you wouldn't have perished had I not been there."

She turns and glowers. "I've taken care of myself my whole life. I don't need to be saved you someone like you."

"Someone like me?" He spits. He doesn't know why the words sting. "Pray tell, who else was there to assist you in fighting those cravens? Who else but me?"

"I could have-,"

"Have died. Would you prefer if I were Eastwood or your other friend Isley? Where were they?" She narrows her eyes. "You're a decent swordman, girl, but you’re rash, and that will be your downfall if you don't break that habit. I should know."

Her gaze turns suspect. "Should you?"

He smirks. "Quite certainly. I wouldn't leave you to fight alone, whatever you think of me. What kind of man would I be had I done such?"

Brienne purses her lips again and stands tall, taller than him. She looks down her broken nose at his face, scrutinizing in manner. "What do you want?"

Jaime does not like the mistrust in her stare. "Beg pardon?"

"I see the way you look at me. Who am I to you? Who have you lost?" Her questions take him aback. "Or is it that you just want a quick fuck?" Her mouth becomes stubborn. "I'm sure you can find someone else- anyone else, with no effort. Why do you want to fuck me, m'lord? Is it because you've never seen a woman so big? Huh? Even if I'm ugly. _What do you want?_ "

It's happened a few times in this long life of his, being at a loss for words that is, but Jaime has never felt such a sense of confusion as he feels now.

She unlaces her breeches and in an instant, the fabric falls to the grass beneath them. She's not wearing small clothes and the curly hair at the juncture of her thighs calls to him like a siren. She lifts her tunic over her head and drops it to the ground. Her breasts are as flat as ever, her shoulders broad and strong, her neck more slender than it was the last time and her hips aren't as wide, though that can be fixed if he gets her with child.

"Will you take your pleasure, m'lord?" Her tone is kinder than before. Her nipples are round and pink and perky, and they prompt his tongue to run across the bottom row of his teeth. "No?" She smirks. "Then I shall take mine."

Brienne turns and runs, leaping from the cliff, and into the blue waves below. Jaime sees her head resurface after a moment of fluttering worry. He can't see her face, just the outline and colour of her head, and when she yells, "Take your pleasure, m'lord!"Jaime strips free of his tunic, but leaves his trousers. He jumps like he'd done lifetimes ago, when he was a boy and the son and heir of the Lord of Casterly Rock, diving into the Sunset Sea on days too hot for sense. _I shall never know sense_. The plunge is exhilarating, his blood flows sweet and hot through his veins, and the water is warm when he reaches it. He stays under for awhile, until he finds her kicking legs and touches the hard planes of her stomach. She squirms and he comes up for air. Her face is flushed, from neck to forehead and as she grins, non horsey and lovely enough, her eyes shine bluer than the seas and the skies.

He swims with her for awhile; following her about the water, and in no time at all, she finds a cove. The push and pull of the waves there are gentle and as it ripples about their necks, their arms and fingers, the liquid undertakes a turquoise hue. She marvels at it.

"It's like the waters on Tarth." She says in awe. "There are many coves there." Jaime knows this, but remains silent. "And when the waters warm during the summer years, they light up quite the same. It's, it's beautiful and too blue. It's more astonishing than anything you've ever seen."

He's close to her, close enough to touch her if he wishes, and he wants nothing more, but he can't at the moment. _Not yet_.

He smiles. "I'll wager those Tarthan waters are nowhere near as astonishing as your eyes."

She blushes again. It travels up from her collarbone, blotches along her neck, and reddens her face. And they're so close that he wants to kiss her and is overjoyed when he feels her press her plump lips against his. Her mouth is warmer than the water and tastes of honeydew melons. The child's more experienced than he would have thought, would have liked, but he dismisses petty jealousies in favor of the rapture he feels. Her kiss is soft but firm and when he tries to deepen it, he wants very much to kiss her the way he's always had, she pulls back and takes his lower lip with a tug as she breaks away.

Her smile brightens her face. "Does that always work?" Her eyes are more lusty than shy.

 _I may not have to wait two moons._ He grins in pleasant anticipation. "Not always." He assures.


	3. Just Out of Grasp

**Jaime III**

On the fourth day back at sea, the waters are choppy. They push and pull the ship in such a way that his stomach flips and tumbles with it. Each rough, turbulent movement annoys him more than the last. Leaving the island had felt rather difficult and left him anxious. There, he was free to ride horse and run for miles had he wished; but here, upon the damnable boat, he is restricted, cattle again, and the consistent swaying beneath his feet, is slowly driving him mad.

The sky is an angry grey, nearly as angry as the charcoal coloured waters, and both seem to reflect his mood. He walks back and forth, from the tip of the quarterback to the foot of the poop deck's ladders. It feels too much like pacing for his liking and he cannot banish the thought of resembling a caged lion. On his third pass around, the old man speaks to him as he swabs the deck behind him.

"Second leg's always the worst part." He is small, grey, and bent; withered like a branch ready to snap, with arms as thin as twigs, and hands that shake.

"What?" Jaime turns and leans against the railing, he's always leaning against bloody railing, forcing himself to cease his pacing.

"Second half, m'lord. Second half's always the worst. Drives men mad it does." He picks up his metal bucket and tosses more soapy water upon the deck. "I tells it truly. Twelve times I made the trip. Twelve times I seen the look in a man's eye."

"What are you on about, old man?"

"The look, m'lord." He turns his gaze from the wood and tilts his wizened head at Jaime. "You got to watch out for the look. Starts with a touch of it. Then...then men start goin' missin."

Jaime decides that the moment is ripe to walk away from the old man's ramblings. _Seems like I'm not the only one who’s gone a little insane_. He descends the ladder and moves about the forecastle. He's restless and has to stretch his legs, move his arms, do _something_. He knows that which would cure this foul mood, but he can't do that yet. She won't let him do that yet. She's not ready. She doesn't love him yet. _Not yet_.

 _Damn it all! Why did I listen to Tyrion this time?_ The fifth one and the ninth were eager for him, for _it_.

He thinks of her upon that cliff before she jumped into the water. He sees her freckled breasts, her pink, hardened nipples, the hair guarding her cunt from his view.

_Damn it all! This is torture. This is hell. You're in a hell, Lannister. The worst one. Take her and be done with it. Calm your old bones. Satisfy your aching-_

"Begging your pardon, my lord." A squire trips before him and drops the contents of a box upon the deck.

"No need for pardons." He bends to help the boy gather parchment and rolls of wax. "What's your name, boy?"

"Roger, my lord." He makes quick work of his folly.

"Here." Jaime says as he hands the boy the last red cylinder. "Fetch the Maester Wyrdell when you've finished your task."

"Aye, my lord."

Old men and green boys; a less than comely morning. A group of sailors pass him, heading in the direction of the foresail, and at its rear, Brienne walks with Ser Isley. She meets his eye and blushes a rather lovely, patchy shade of red when he winks. _Mayhaps not so unpleasant a morning as moments past would suggest._

Up the ladders and to the quarterdeck, he returns to his pacing. The old man is still there, in more or less the same spot as before, swabbing the same five planks of wood. By all rights, he should have been finished by now.

"Storm's comin." He sniffs as Jaime passes him. "I can smell it."

"That's preposterous." Jaime says sharply. "Focus on your moping, you old fool."

"Old," he nods his head and mumbles to himself, "yes, but fool…no. No fool, m'lord. I tells it truly. Storm's comin, and a big one. You watch. You'll see. You have to watch."

Jaime has lived near one ocean or another for most of his life. He knows how to read the colours of the clouds, as well as the broken, squally, heaving of the waves. The old man is right. A storm is coming. Nevertheless, Jaime is bored and irritated and the idea of provoking this madman seems as good as any to give himself a laugh; albeit a droll one.

"You can't smell a storm, you simpleton. Do you fancy yourself some type of wizard?" Jaime crosses his arms about his chest and smirks.

The man picks his bucket up and splashes more water upon the deck to his left. "No wizard, no m'lord. Sailor I've been all my life." _This one's not sharp enough to notice the derision. Gods! Where's that sot Burrin_? "All my life, m'lord, and I made the trip twelve times. I know storms. Storm's coming."

"Cease your rantings." Jaime says dismissively, moving to leave, to find a better target.

"Made the trip eighty years ago. A boy then I was. Must have been your grandfather's father we had in escort. He'd but the one hand too."

Jaime freezes in his stride. He turns back to see the man staring at him with pale, cloudy eyes.

"What's your name, old man?"

"Kenton Hill, m'lord. Was Kenny, then just Ken, now everyone calls me Old Hill."

"Kenton Hill." Jaime remembers a Kenton Hill from his third journey to the colonies. Kenton, or Kenny as he liked to be called, was a tall child who grew like a weed during the voyage. He'd blonde hair like sand that curled, signifying him a bastard of the Rock. Jaime wondered whose child he'd been. They were between Tyrions then, so the sire couldn't have been his brother. He was going to figure out the mystery once he returned. The trip was long, as it always is, but he'd convinced his sister to accompany him, assuring he wasn't lonely outside of his bed; though that was until she grew bored and resentful and left him to content himself with the crew for company. That's how he met the little bastard. The child was always up under foot, but was useful, and in time, Jaime grew fond of him. He took him to squire for a time, and even planned to keep him on after the voyage back, he was a good lad after all and had Lannister blood, a knighthood and lands were in his future; but things on the continent went awry, and when the crew escaped, he and his sweet sister had yet to rise anew, so they were forced to find another way home. And that was an entirely different ordeal in itself. He can feel his phantom fingers twitch just thinking of it.

"Yes, m'lord?"

"You're right, Kenny. A storm is coming. You should go below and-"

"Sails!" The barrel men of the crow's nests cry for all to hear. "Sails from the east!"

Jaime looks to the poop deck and sees Burrin near the helm, a spyglass in hand, the lens upon his eye. He climbs the ladder in four strides and is in front of the man before he finishes looking.

"What of the flags? Are they of the Reach?"

"No, m'lord. No flags are raised."

"What? Not even white?" The first mate, Tiegs his name is, though Jaime never remembers, hands him his own spyglass. He sees a force of ten ships. Even with the distance, he can make out the model of each: four Braavosi galleons, three brigantines, two large Lynese fleuts, and a Westerosi man-of-war fashioned differently than his own; the sails are larger, there are two main masts instead of three. It sails in the style of Oldtown's vessels. There is no way the garrison of ships could have slipped past his fleet, even if they were three days behind his flag ship and the two frigates of his convoy. _It is simply impossible._

"M'lord what are your commands?"

"Signal Tunt and Cheryl. Prepare the port batteries. I trust that once this storm begins, it won't be a problem for you, captain."

Burrin retracts his spyglass. "No problem, m'lord."

"Good. We shall know exactly who these friends of ours are soon enough."

He closes the spyglass and hands it back to Tiegs. "Boy," he addresses a passing squire. "Yes, you. Fetch the Maester Wyrdell. Tell him to come post haste."

"Aye, my lord."

Wyrdell arrives after a half hour. "Have the words _post haste_ come under new meaning within the last hour, Maester?"

The boy has the decency to look abashed. "Messages from Captains Cheryl of the Crimson Revolver and the Captain Tunt of the Golden Fury have been received, my lord."

Jaime reads the scrolls in moments. Both rolls of parchment smell of a woman's cunt, same as the boy's hands come to think of it.

"When next I summon you, you shall arrive in a timely manner." Wyrdell looks to the wood of the deck.

"Yes, my lord."

"Your cock will have to wait." Jaime exhales in exasperation and narrows his eyes. "Inform each captain that they are to have their guns ready. Their vessels should be brought port broadside at the enemy's approach. After we shoot, they are to fire at will. Once the storm hits, they will follow the lead of Captain Burrin."

Wyrdell nods. "Right away, my lord."

Jaime watches him go to his ravenry. _Damnable boy. He concerns himself with cunts at a time such as this. You're a hypocrite, Lannister. You'd bar your door and stay between your woman's legs given the opportunity._ Jaime smirks. _Indeed, I would_. There is no sign of his woman to be sure. _I'll find her before they're upon us._

"M'lord, the flags have been raised," Burrin starts.

"-and?" Jaime cuts in. _They must be of the Reach, or even the River Kingdom..._

"Black flags. A skeleton with a gray iron hook for a left hand. Ten of the same."

"Pirates?" _They are being accosted by sodding pirates?!_

"Aye. They're mayhaps a league away now and gaining quickly. The winds are against us."

Jaime turns to his second in command. Ser Robert stands upon the ladder, awaiting his instructions. "Ready the stern guns. Fire upon the nearest vessel just as they break range. Tunt and the Crimson Revolver will follow suit."

"Aye, my lord." He nods and leaves, walking briskly to relay the orders to his captains and thus further down the line.

Jaime looks through the glass again. _The fucking winds are against us_. "Bring us about port broadside."

"Aye, m'lord."

He goes to find Brienne. As he passes the quarterdeck and scans the forecastle, he sees man after man at the gunports to his left. He sees ropes and soldiers and flint rocks, but no Brienne. _Where are you?_

There is cannon fire, muffled and far away, and in moments, he hears the whistle of iron balls cutting through the air above him. Jaime looks up just in time to see them fly overhead, landing in the murky water on the other side of his vessel. He runs to the poop deck.

"Give me a spyglass!" He demands when reaching a squire.

Two of the galleons have turned about. Their gunports are open, and Jaime knows that there will be another assault once they reload. "Get us broadside captain!"

"Aye, m'lord!"

There's more cannon fire in moments, from more than the two ships. Burrin, to his credit, is a rather competent helmsman and steers in a way that avoids much of the bombardment. Their ship remains unscaved for the time being. When Jaime looks through his spyglass, looks to his frigates, he sees that the Golden Fury wasn't so quick to maneuver, and the stern of the vessel has taken damage.

"Seven hells." He curses. "Tunt's stern is hit."

"Bugger all!" Burrin says from behind the great wooden wheel.

More explosions and more iron balls attack their stern, then off the port quarter, until finally their port beam is exposed, and they are ready to fire.

"Fire at will!" Jaime calls to Krynshaw from his place by the poop deck's ladders. The guns of his ship explode one after the other in what may be the sweetest chorus Jaime could think to hear. His smile is broad and once the smoke clears, he opens his spyglass to assess the damage. They've set the forecastle of one of the galleons to flame. A cheer spreads through the deck for a moment before Jaime commands the men to reload.

They receive an onslaught from a brigantine, prompting Jaime to descend the ladder and yell, "Brace yourselves!" A ball hits the ship, clipping the floor of the poop deck, lodging into the pole of the mizzen topsail. Wood splinters in the air around him and he shields his face with the back of his hand.

"The other galleon, captain!"

"Aye, m'lord!"

When they are in range Jaime yells for the men to fire. The air is a cloud of thick grey smoke when he hears the targeted ship explode. He sees it ablaze and sinking as a proper cheer is raised around him. With his spyglass, he sees that Captain Cheryl of the Crimson Revolver has positioned his ship much the same as Burrin, though his starboard is exposed to the assault instead of his port. The frigate takes another galleon down and when Jaime glimpses the Golden Fury, he sees them in the midst of battle with a brigantine.

The grey smoke of the cannons mixes with the grey of the sky and the seas. It is no sooner than the men reload that the waves begin to lap violently against the vessel. The rain comes quick and sudden. The wind picks up and whips with a vengeful fever. Burrin steers them as best he can, through the cannonade and the enlarging surf. Jaime sees the man's face, red and puffed in concentration. They avoid much of the barrage as far as he can tell. When again they are steady enough to fire at another brigantine, Jaime addresses his men.

"Fire!"

The hail of cannonballs land true, riddling the stern of their target.

"Reload!"

The man-of-war has opened its gunports, and now seventy cannons are aimed at his ship. Robert has yet to give him the signal that the guns are at the ready and there isn't time enough to deflect, he can see it in Burrin's face. _Damn it all!_

"Brace!" He yells, though the end of his word is swallowed by the deafening salvo of enemy shots.

The blitz seems to last an eternity and as he shields his eyes, crouches down, he can hear the damage done to his ship more than he can see it. It ends in the screams and moans of his men. To his front, there are holes in the decks and the bulkheads. He looks up to see the fore topgallant sail, the main topgallant sail, the mizzenmast all in ruins. The mast has fallen backward, resting upon the starboard side of the poop deck, poking out from the stern. Wood splinters about the deck all around him as the winds pick up and it is a mixture of earth and sea flying sharply across his face. He wipes the water, the blood from his brow and orders the men to hold, to fire, to reload.

They hit the man-of-war in turn, though the damage is nothing in comparison to the assault his vessel has just received. The winds pick up then, and the rains, the spray of the ocean beat sideways in his face, against the ship. He faintly hears Tiegs yelling orders to gather this and to tie that down. Their battle is shifting and as the waves grow mountainous, Jaime knows the more powerful foe is the sea. He looks to his captain again. He sees the man through sheets of rain, fighting the helm to steer, battling the storm. The cannon fire has stopped and for the instant his eyes scan the open waters before them, he sees two enemy ships collide.

There is an explosion behind him, to the port stern mayhaps, and it propels him forward, making him crash into a rolling cannon, knocking the wind from his lungs effectively. He wheezes for breath as he holds onto the railing before him with a vice grip. For although his life is endless, drowning at sea is rather less than desirable, and last time it was a pain in the arse to eventually find a shore. Slowly, he staggers along the slippery wood of the deck, his hand gripping whatever it can tightly as a large wave rushes over the forecastle, sweeping everything not tied down, every loose dying and dead man, into the brine.

 _Where is Brienne?_ He scans the deck but sees no sign of her. _You haven't seen her since before you spoke to Kenny. Find her, you fool._ Things are slow going as he moves. The winds rush violently, and the ship is moving too fast, he knows. He wipes his face again and his head snaps to Burrin once more. The man is shouting, "Lower the sails! Damn you! Tie everything down!" What men they have left scramble to do as he commands.

Another wave comes over them and Jaime sees Ser Isley nearly go over. He's only able to grasp her tunic in the last moment, hoisting her back upon the deck with a strength he doesn't feel. She coughs and shakes uncontrollably.

"Th-thank you, my my-" she stammers.

"Get below!" He pulls her in the direction of the hatches. "Now!"

She goes on wobbly legs and when she's out of sight he turns to the quarterdeck, running about as fast as he dares move. He passes his squires and sees the boys help the sailors secure the cannons to their stations. He looks around the deck but, alas she's nowhere to be seen.

"-below!" A man yells from above him. It's loud enough to make out over the roar of the storm and the rush of the waves. In an instant, the voice is accompanied by the piercing, terrified screams of falling men. Two sailors land with a thud upon the deck. He's seen them before, young lads. One weeps in pain, his arm is shattered and the right leg is bent at a sickening angle. The other's neck is snapped, twisting his face completely around, and his dead eyes stare at the dark clouds above them. Another man falls to his death in the next moment.

"Kenny." He says as he rushes to the corpse. "Damn it, Kenny. Why were you even up there?"

Jaime looks up. Along the main topgallant yard, five men try to unravel the sail, flapping wildly from one end. He looks again and sees her, six bodies instead of five, dangling along the side of the pole, doing something so stupid as to try and cut the ropes connecting the ruined sail to the mast.

"Brienne." He breathes just as panic sets in. He watches her nearly slip twice and he doesn't know what to do in this damnable situation. _I can climb to her and drag her down. You're good with your left hand now, Lannister._ And yet, it is but one hand and to remain secure in this wind and rain, a man needs two. He curses himself. _Seven hells!_ The storm fades away, the screams, the water spraying his face. It feels an eternity as watches her there, an eternity until the ropes give and the massive canvas falls, blowing away into the great grey chaos. She makes her way to the wet floor of the deck in no time at all and a cheer goes up for her as Burrin leads them out of the storm with a better handle upon the ship. They hold tight, for how long, he doesn't know, but soon enough they are beneath still grey skies.

She's talking to Wynne bloody Eastwood when he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the hatches and deck below, to his council chambers. He closes the door and bars it before turning to her.

"What do you think you're doing?" She demands.

"What do I think I'm-" He scoffs. He's angry, more angry than he's been in quite some time. She holds her head high and meets his glare. "Are you fucking mad? Or merely trying to get yourself killed? If you wish to die, my lady, I can assure you there are easier methods."

He can see the excitement in her eyes, her blood is still singing from her foolhardy display. "I did as the captain bid me, ser." Her mouth is stubborn. "I did what no man dared do. I-"

"-could have died." He finishes. He steps into her personal space and his nose nearly touches her own. He kisses her then, well and proper like he used to, before pulling back. "You're a bloody fool of a pigheaded wench." He kisses her neck, can feel her pulse race beneath his lips. "You never heed me." He tears her wet tunic apart at the front. "You never heed." He sucks and licks his way past her collarbone, down her chest, stopping at her breasts. Against the table he pushes her, knocking parchment and ink pots and goblets to the wood and the rushes. Brienne moans as he swirls his tongue around the bud of her left nipple and her fingers run through his damp hair.

Jaime looks up at her. Sunlight comes through the glass ports, landing upon the table in faint slanted beams, illuminating her pale freckled breasts. Her mouth is open ever so slightly and her blue eyes are dark and hooded with hunger. When he takes the right nipple, suckling harder than before, Brienne bites her lower lip in pleasure, and he knows he can't wait any longer. He tears her black leather breeches apart at the laces, along the seams, and she's not wearing small clothes, _which is marvelous_. He smiles as her impatient hands reach for him. She unlaces the ties of his breeches in moments and grabs him firmly when he's free. Her hands are warm, are soft against his cock and he cannot stop a hiss from escaping his mouth.

There is confidence in her gaze, alluring and lovely, yet when she smiles at his reaction, it's rather timid and quite small. He kisses her chest, between the teats, her neck, her chin, and looks up at her face. "I'll stop now if that is your wish." The words taste like ash in his mouth but he's almost certain it's not a complete lie.

Her breath hitches. "No, no need to stop. I want this too."

"Alright." His smile is bright. Jaime kisses her quick. "Lie back." He makes his way down, past her breasts and navel, to the juncture of her thighs and her lovely sex. She smells magnificent, she always does. Two slow laps of his tongue elicit such sweet, delicate whimpers from her that never ceases to amaze him. The sounds should be impossible for one such as herself to make, and yet all Briennes are prone to them. He licks her folds and sucks her clit, works his fingers into her cunt until they come away slick and he's certain she's ready for him. Jaime holds her legs up, his stump at the back of her left knee, as he positions his cock at her entrance. He looks at her for a moment before she breathes. "Yes." And pushes into her only a fourth of the way. She's tight, lovely and taut, and the sensation can overwhelm him, it causes his balls to constrict, so he pulls back. She gasps as he moves in again, half-way this time. Her thighs tremble slightly as he thrusts himself in completely. Her eyes are scrunched shut. Her brows are drawn. She's biting her lower lip again and the more he looks at her face, the more he can see her mouth quiver in distress.

Jaime stops, stays in to the hilt so she can get used to him, but her expression causes him pause. "Brienne?" He says her name gently.

She nods at his voice, though doesn't open her eyes. "I-I'm ok,okay." Again, he thinks of how young she is and wonders if he has acted too impetuously. She takes a long, deep breath and grasps his hand at her hip, entwining their fingers. "I'm okay." She sighs.

He leans over and kisses her sweet, runs his tongue along the top row of her teeth, and the movement causes her to clench around him, making him grunt. _You should whisper words of love. Her eyes always shine when she hears them_. "You're beautiful." Jaime kisses her again and as he pulls back, her features twist in disbelief.

Her eyes are watery. "You need not lie, ser."

"It is no lie." He counters fervently. He doesn't know when it became a truth. Jaime moves then, slowly, in a gentle rolling motion and it takes her long moments to relax. He kisses her here and there as he thrusts. When her nipples harden further, to fine pink points, he disentangles their fingers and rubs the nub of her clit in time with his movements. She moans and smiles and pleads _...please, Jaime..oh, please..._ and when her legs wrap around him, when she rocks her hips, grinding her cunt against him in a rhythm to match his own, she begins to chant his name. Such a lovely chant. He smiles despite his own growing need. She moves too quickly against him, and though he tries to slow her, holds her hips, her arse in his attempt, she doesn't relent.

"Fuck." He curses as he feels his pleasure build too quickly. His cock is sensitive and as she clutches around him in the beginnings of her ecstasy, he knows he will soon be lost too. Her chest heaves as she moves rather frantically, crying _yes, Yes, YES_ , until her mouth falls slack, and her back arches and her eyes roll back to whiteness. She goes tense and he stops for a moment as she spasms, but he keeps pumping, _he's almost there_ , and when she sighs his name again, trembling in her bliss, it's too much. He comes, wheezing and pathetic, with his forehead between her breasts.

It takes him too long to regain his breath, but once he does, he looks up at her, and as she smiles her eyes are big and blue and exquisite. "You're beautiful." He says grinning. "Truly."

She frowns a little and eyes him with all the suspension in the known world. It makes no matter. He doesn't care. Jaime kisses her as he pulls her up. "Come with me."

Brienne grabs the tattered remnants of her breeches with an altogether different frown. _Too rash, Lannister_. "Where might that be, m'lord?"

"Jaime." He insists, looking through chests for a spare he knows is there. He tosses them to her, and she dawns the garment before speaking further. He notices she didn't wipe his seed from her thighs, and it pleases him.

"Jaime," she says in echo, tasting the name outside of passion, "where would you have us go?"

He huffs a laugh. "My chambers, of course."

She turns to him whilst tying the strings of her tunic, brows drawn, mouth agape. "You mean to go again?"

He raises a brow, smirking. "And twice more if I am to speak truly...if you are willing that is."

"I," she chews her bottom lip, "I suppose, m'lor-Jaime."

"Marvelous." His breeches are on. His tunic is fastened. He pulls on one boot and then another, before offering his elbow. "At your behest, my lady."

Her smile is a precious thing, and though she walks past him out the door, she heads to his sleeping quarters and that's just as well. He takes her once, twice, thrice more, such as he said, though he would have preferred another round. Moonlight spills through the port glass when finally, he allows her rest. He should see to the damages of the ship and his crew, but he doesn't care enough to leave her, and it really can wait until morn. He is satisfied as he hasn't been in decades and Jaime knows he'll let nothing change that. Her back is to him, his knees brush the backs of hers, and his toes move against the soles of her feet. The moonlight shines upon her naked body, making it glow. He kisses the nape of her neck and she rubs her arse against his flaccid cock.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait a time, my lady." Her eagerness amuses him.

"Not for long I hope." Brienne turns her head. The outline of her nose is crooked as it always is. He laughs outright and hugs her close, nuzzling her neck, kissing the hollow of her collarbone. "I broke a rule." Her tone is strange.

His forefinger draws lazy spirals upon her hip. "And which edict would that be?"

Brienne rises, turns, and rests on her elbows as she looks down at him. "I gave myself to you."

 _This one's a strange child_. "Clarify."

"I promised myself I wouldn't fall- fuck another man after..."

"After?" He prompts.

"After my Emrah died. I promised him too." There are tears in her eyes.

"Emrah." The name tastes bitter on his tongue. "Who is this Emrah to you?"

Her smile is doleful. "Emrah is my…was my love." She takes a deep breath. "We apprenticed together under Master Endersen. He defended-he was always kind to me."

 _The perpetual key to your heart it seems_. "And how did this Emrah come to perish?" He asks her gently.

"He," her sad smile turns positively forlorn and her blue eyes lachrymose, "there was a raid from the east. His Grace normally has ship enough patrol the waters but that day, somehow, they got through. The Evenstar led a host of men, but you must understand, Tarth is a small island, and we are mostly farmers and miners there. He called for all able-bodied men and I wanted to fight too but...my master forbade it. I even tried to disguise myself, so I could join the battle by Emrah's side, but Emrah knew me well enough to anticipate my plan. He found me with my armor and longsword the night before the fleet made land fall. He, he kissed me sweetly that night and made me promise," her unscarred cheeks shine wet in the glow of the moon, "and I never saw him again. When the raiders were defeated, a knight came to our forge and gave me their swords."

She is seated on her rump now, weeping for another man. Jaime watches her plump lips tremble; sees as her not so prominent jaw quivers; bears witness to her eyes, her deep blue eyes, swim with sadness, and in that moment, he knows that he's had enough.

"Do not weep for those slain in battle." His words are sharper than they should be. "The boy died a warrior's death, one fine for any man." He sits up and touches her arm. "Dry your tears." She sniffles rather delicately, such as all Briennes do, when he takes her in his arms. "Dry your tears."

He lets her mourn in silence for a time while he strokes her hair, while he kisses the side of her mouth.

"I should have fought beside them."

 _Then you'd be dead as well most like_. "But you didn't, best forget your regrets. I've learned such thoughts lead to naught but heartache."

She pulls from his embrace and stares at him, brows drawn. "You never told me who you lost."

 _I lost you_. He smirks. "It makes no difference. I've you now." _You again_. "And you're enough." _I hope._

She looks at him then, with all the magic of those blue eyes, and smiles her non-horsey grin. Her lips meet his as she sits upon his lap, and in no time at all he's thrusting, bucking upward into her sweet, lovely cunt as she rides him, holding his shoulders, his neck, in her race to completion.

He keeps her there, atop him, his withered cock still inside her after the act, and when he leans back, resting upon the bedding, she goes with him. She's so quiet that he thinks she must have fallen asleep until-

"What vexes you, m'lord?"

 _You, child_. He turns them and removes himself from her with a wince. _Would that I could stay there forever_. She lays on her back and his fingers brush across her abdomen. Jaime wonders if she will soon be with child. His seed has quickened within her countless times, and ofttimes there are children, most even live long enough to go off into the world and mark their own paths. This girl though, this Brienne, has nay over one year left to breathe and smile and share in his passions. She may fall in battle, as she has so many times before. Jaime thinks of this Brienne's tears for her Emrah and his own hypocrisy. _Is there no end to this ceaseless dance? I shall mourn you until the world ends it would seem_. The thought leaves him bitter. _I couldn't save her that first time. I can't save this child either._ So, he smiles.

"Naught to worry yourself with, Brienne." He pulls her closer to his person, makes so her body lays upon his, her head on his chest, ribs in his elbow. He holds her tight and sighs into her thin straw coloured hair. _You can't save her._ _I'm too fond of this one_. _You can't even save yourself._ When she falls, his heart may thoroughly break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know precious little of boats and ships and naval battles, though I’m sure you can tell. As always, thanks for reading. More to come soon. We finally make it to our destination.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please comment and tell me what worked/ didn’t work. Your opinion means it all. More to come!


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